Private Death And Rebirth

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Shadowing the events of Return the Blade. . .

Solitude; A blessing so ordinary, yet so foreign within the life of a seer. For they wandered always among ghosts, seeking answers within the labyrinth of the Force. Accursed with a gift most cherished as precious, it blighted their very body until they were naught more than a husk--serving the wills of the Force, serving destiny and destiny alone.

Canvases were painted before her very eyes as her acheing body lay imprisoned within a tomb of bacta, her wounds grave and rest a need. Though within, time was a haze--had it been days or had it been weeks since the medics placed her here? Or mere hours stretched into eternity?

Each agonising draw of breath resonated sharply with the cruelty of her psyche, the same dream was haunting her in continuous rhythm. A torment as persistent as insects upon flora, a plague, a hunger never sated. . .

The theatre curtains opened to the vision; a mystic stood before her, her eyes hollowed-out and bloodied, her limbs moving akin to a puppet dancing on strings. Surrounding her red spider lilies bloomed across a barren field, their petals marred by blood--the Flower of Death, heralding the cycle of death and rebirth. Each step Isobel took along the path summoned more life from the barren earth. . . nature blossoming where it could not. At the end of the field, a figure appeared. Tall. . . impossibly tall. One arm hung stained with gore, crimson droplets falling from her fingers.

Beneath the silhouette bloomed not reddened petals.

But white spider lilies. . .

When her blood landed upon the white sepals beneath , distortion ran over the scene, and the abyss claimed Bel's eyes.

The darkness unraveled once more, revealing the same barren field, the same lilies, the same towering figure standing at the end of the path. Again. And again. And again. . . Without mercy, without changes. The vision followed the ceaseless cycle of rot and bloom, with not an end in sight.

A ceaseless loop driving her into madness' hands. Her mind scouring its archives; there were not many with this physique, not many so pivotal to be witnessed in her visions.

The Empress of the Core.

It took fifteen repetitions of the same horrid vision for it to register within her foggy mind. Fifteen cycles of blood, lilies, and darkness before the truth settled in. The realisation wrenched her from the trance. Her eyes snapped open within the bacta tank, and her right arm immediately began to bash itself against the transparisteel barrier. The noise echoed through the chamber, acheing to be heard. . .

---

Present--aboard the Throneworld.

Thud, thud, thud.

The cane tapped against the firm flooring in unison with the march of the escorting personnel. The medics had ensured the exterior wounds inflicted by The Arkanian were stitched up properly, though the bacta had not been given enough time for it to fully mend her fractured leg. The ache coursed through her body with each motion, weighing her down, instead of fueling her resolve--her strength. An Acolyte's lapse.

The dreamscape clouded her mind, never-ending waves of doubt flooding her senses, sparked by the rising anxiety within. . . To be upon the Empress' spaceship and dare to proclaim a vision as hazy as this one, it was a bold--and dangerous...--move, though Isobel could not have possibly woken from slumber for naught. . . It had to hold a greater meaning, rebirth, death, rebirth. Its purpose was beyond her.

She was untrained, for even during her brief stay on Voss, the Mystics refused to impart her with their wisdom.

For how could a foreigner comprehend the weight of visions?

The guard murmured something as they neared tall doors, though what was uttered was beyond her grasp. Lost to the echoes of her mind. The Mystic had followed blindly, not once daring to gaze upon the intricacies of the interior. That was until the hall was opened to her; a masterpiece of marble, opulence and grandeur overwhelmed her, lighting a spark of longing. . . for the same luxury held on Naboo. The thought was discarded, as she stepped into the hall, her cane preceding her every step.

The Acolyte's presence here had been anticipated, all because of Lysander von Ascania and his wellspring of connections. It did not soothe the nerves still. The tip of her crutch danced an anxious pattern across the marble as she glanced around, each soft tap echoing a little too loudly within the hollow chamber. . .

It eluded her at first, but at the end, a figure identical to her visions was unveiled; tall, terrifying and imposing--"Empress. . ." Bel blurted out, as she sought to bow, as was demanded. Her cane wobbling back and forth, before she clumsily withdrew.

She dared not approach, shifting awkwardly on her feet. Her heart pounding about as loudly as a charging cavalry, and her force presence pulsing erratically. "The Emissary von Ascania," Why did her mind convert to formality? "Must have mentioned visions of some form, I. . . I wished to tell you of one, Empress. . ." Her gaze drew down toward her hands. "If you would permit me."

​

 

[Mercy]

MERCY

EMPRESS | WARLORD | STAR-ARM

Location: THRONEWORLD | Tags: Isobel Serraris​

.

Mercy had faired little better than Isobel during the Battle of Humbarine. Half her face had been burned off, her arm had been dislocated and broken in several places. Her back had been rendered into rinced meat. Half her torso burned to a crisp. Her eye gone, half her mouth gone, jaw dislocated, the list of things broken was longer than the list of healthy things.

A certain ghostly woman, Srina Talon , had stayed with her since Humbarine. Fussed over her for night and day, irrespective of her protests that it was unnecessary. Mercy figured that was what it meant to accept someone's care.

Even if you didn't need attention and care, they'd foist it on you and make you grateful for it.

By the time that Isobel was ready enough to waddle her way up to Throneworld and then further into the throne room, Mercy was pretty much back to normal. Her healing factor on a bad day was good enough to keep her going. With the attention of the Blackwall Empress, it had gone by even faster than that.

She had both eyes again and her face was back to normal too. But her body was covered in new scarring, forced onto it by order of Mercy. While her body had wanted to regenerate as new, she would not have it. Every scar, the thick rends on her arms and across her shoulders, had been earned piece by piece.

Even her face had a few new carves to it.

"Empress. . ." Bel blurted out, as she sought to bow, as was demanded. Her cane wobbling back and forth, before she clumsily withdrew.

Mercy glanced back from the viewport towards the new presence in the room. Eyebrow raised at the cane and the awkward demeanor. She send a probe down her mind and it returned a name.

Isobel Serraris.

The Crone had taken interest in her and Lysander was an acquaintance of hers. This was good enough for Mercy to see her.

"The Emissary von Ascania," Why did her mind convert to formality? "Must have mentioned visions of some form, I. . . I wished to tell you of one, Empress. . ." Her gaze drew down toward her hands. "If you would permit me."

​

"Visions..." Mercy murmured amused before gesturing for Isobel to join her at the viewport. "What is it with Sith and their visions?" First Efret Farr , all mystical and mysterious. Then the Crone showing up out of nowhere. Eyes burned out and tongue a-waggling in mirth. Now there was another figure who claimed to see things without using her eyes.

"Speak, Isobel Serraris. But I doubt you will be able to tell me anything I don't already know."

.

ERASE THE PAST

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Dreams were shrouded in obscurity, their messages veiled by symbolism, by anomalies that made the mystic wonder. A part within burned with fears of untruths, of whispering the wrong omen in the ear of the Empress, whereas the other had grown certain this was the truth--its place within legend would unravel over time.

One entity would fall and another shall rise in its stead. . .

The studious and assessing stare from the Sith ran over her like a cold wave of seawater. What was it with Sith and this scrutiny? First the Instructor on Pelagon, and now the Empress, as if they anticipated deceit from a lass that did not dare lie about how she felt. Mayhaps it was another one of the intricate rules holding together the Covenant and its hierarchy--it was beyond her to grasp it.

When the figure beckoned her nearer, she wasted no moment, quickening her pace as her injured leg dragged over the intricate flooring.

"What others may dream of is but another note in the grand symphony of the Galaxy, Ma'am." Isobel dared disagree, as her body limped closer to the viewport. For it was the truth; Precognition, however small, blighted each and every one using the Force, be it to save them from immediate harm or to warn them of a shift in the future. To run from it, to spurn it, would not undo their verity.

The Empress was even taller up close, casting her shadow upon the Acolyte as she stopped next to the entity. Her words echoed in her mind like a dare, a challenge to be bested, a way to prove her worth to Mercy--hopefully. And she would rise to the challenge, no matter how much fear coursed through her body, nor how fiercely the agony within her leg sought to drag her down into the abyss. She would not falter.

Isobel's brown eyes landed on the starscape beyond the transparisteel viewport. "A dream of Death and Rebirth haunted me, not yours, not. . . literally." Her stance shifted as she leaned on her cane for balance.

"It began with a Mystic from Voss, red of skin, dangling on a set of strings akin to a puppet. Serving a purpose, an obscured master." Who was it? The Empress? Another? It lay beyond her knowledge. "Around her lies an endless field of death--an environment marred with blood." A breath escaped her lungs, as her gaze drew back toward the Empress and her right arm, her voice softening--begging her to listen. "In the far distance, a figure--You stand at the horizon, drenched in crimson, gazing over an unsullied field."

The cane tapped loudly against the marble, a loud strike after the whispered conclusion. "Fields do not bloom without being cleared first, Empress. . . Though what blossoms thereafter, may very well lie in your hands."

​

 

[Mercy]

Isobel Serraris

Perhaps surprising the young woman Mercy did not interrupt her and listened patiently to the words uttered.

The more Isobel spoke, the more Mercy frowned.

In truth Mercy had little truck with visions and prophecies. A woman who had build her life around the idea that her will alone was what shaped her fate had a hard time with the other shoe. The concept that there was something more that could be guiding her movements. That perhaps it wasn't just her own will that kept moving her forward.

Perhaps to Isobel her words were cryptic and the meaning unclear. The Crone too had spoken without understanding. But both of them were hitting towards the truth in every action Mercy had taken since Arris Windrun , Vestra Tane and her had declared the Covenant on Desevro.

While Vestra had been an ideologue and Arris was a pragmatist, Mercy created the vission of the latter, while secretly being the former.

"You said a lot, Serraris." The Mountain finally said as she looked down to the Hill. "Do you actually know what you said? Or do the words simply flow through you. A channel, a medium of communication, that ends with your words being delivered into my ears?"

In other words, was Isobel the person who has gotten closest to the why of what Mercy did since Acier Moonbound ?

Or were her motivations still her own?

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Who sketched and painted the canvases of the future? Did the ink lie within the soft hand of the seer or truly--and solely--within the authorative fist of the Weave? The query murmured within the back of her mind as brown eyes trailed off toward the extravagance of the Throne room, her cane slipping from her jittery hands every now and then.

A shy and awkward laugh shaped itself onto the quivering lip as she sought to shake off the excess worry that still lingered within her body. The Empress was tall and imposing, whilst she were but an acolyte in the grand hierarchy of the Sith; a mere insect in the food chain, to be devoured by those of a higher standing. Those fated to succeed whereas she might fail.

"Visions are... like musical notes. They are brought into my dreamscape, scattered, its meaning a hopeless mystery, and my hand must weave them into one coherent melody--or a symphony." The easiest allegory she could think of spilled from Bel's lips as the attention fixed upon the scarred visage of Mercy. "Experience and. . . deeper meditation allow a seer to perceive and compose these harmonies more readily. The Mystics of Voss have honed this craft, whereas. . . I have not." A low murmur followed her word; "Yet."

Months ago, if not a year, the Nabooan had made an attempt to seek out the Mystics' teachings, only to face the invasion of multiple factions on Voss' surface. They scorched and plundered all there was to know, leaving only scraps behind, secluded monks refusing to speak to another of this accursed populace. . . Mayhap she ought to go back, but the path into the obscured rituals and traditions was a long and tedious one--with more failures than successes.

Following the light sway of her head, her attention was snapped back. "But I saw this future clearly, Empress." A peculiar clarity poured from her every word, blossomed from the knowledge that what she had dreamt was truth, and that no soul could outrun its blade. "You may question my role, my motives, but it does not blind me to all I have witnessed."

​

 

[Mercy]

Isobel Serraris

A smirk developed across the scarred and wounded visage.

"Oh, darling, you might not have had the privilege of learning from the Voss Mystics, but you certainly talk like one already." Mercy teased her with amusement as she looked away again from the young girl. It was a relief, knowing that someone errant girl couldn't pluck some chords from the sky and figure out Mercy's entire belief-system without even needing to talk to her.

That would have been disturbing to someone as counter-deterministic as Mercy.

But it did make her thoughtful about Isobel and her potential.

"I am told that you started your journey with the Jedi..." Her tone was not judgemental, in fact, it still had the same level of amusement as before when Mercy had teased her.

"The road must have led you to interesting places for you to end up here with us."

Finally turning again to Isobel.

"What do you think of what you have seen so far?"

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Was it truly a noble aspiration to yearn to become better. . . nay an equal to the mystics of Voss? Beings whose presence was so heavily disputed, for were they just? Were they merciless? Were they but one, or both? What separated them from the Sith, from Criminal Empires seeking to destruct the other for their own benefit? Bel felt lost on its answers . . .

And more so tied up in strings when the 'compliment' about her speech landed within her mindscape. An uneasy feeling to know some part of her already resonated with seers so skilled yet-- ambiguous. "I tried, once. And then your kind came to their doorstep, it is. . ." she wished to argue, to state it was in their nature to subjugate other societies for their own benefit, but it would only attain acknowledgement or acceptance. "Fate. Not all pursuits end the way we want them to." A political answer to dismiss the topic.

A tap landed upon the tiles, as her gaze wandered over the Empress' visage. . . There was something, so hazily familiar about this person, and yet in all her travels she could not place it. Head tilted from left to right as though she were a charhound pup, trying to study a noise.

"Yes, a Padawan. . . It was a different life, one of great protection and mercies and yet," Something stirred within the blue blood of her veins, as fingers stilled upon the cane's handle. "Without the thrill, the challenges, the possibilities one might find surrounded by.." Awkwardly: "Sith." The heart drummed so loud, so swift, it might have choked her if not for the careful rhythmic take of breath.

Then realisation struck her, as an instinctive recoil fired through her system, forcing her to take a step back--nearly sacking through her bad leg. "Nar Shaddaa. . ." Lip grazed lower lip in quiet consideration. "I saw you there, in the alleyway. . ." Naught had come of the interaction, because it had been so brief. "You called me a 'little lady'." Cracks appeared within the fragile composure she had pieced together, as she wondered if the Empress knew more than she told.

​

 

[Mercy]

Isobel Serraris

Mercy observed Isobel as she seemingly seemed to wrestle with something when the former Jedi looked at her.

This was not an unusual occurrence. Especially now, while Mercy was still healing, she was truly a frightening display. So Mercy remained patient as the young girl tried to work her way through it.

Her following words did surprise the Empress however.

She did not immediately respond and instead watched Isobel keenly. Mercy's mind was a strange thing, a ruinous storm that whirled around in her skull, open for access but a constant maelstrom of madness. It was often difficult for her to place people when they weren't in the same room with her.

That was the consequence of living in the moment at all times. The past didn't matter, the future had yet to come.

But with application of force and will Mercy managed to draw the memory out. Vague as it was, altered by alcohol and time.

"Oh, yes. The Little Lady." Mercy murmured in amusement. "And? Did you manage to find your brother out there after all?"

It had been an uneventful encounter for Mercy. It hadn't ended in blood, or a dead body at her feet, which meant it ended far more fortuitously for Isobel than most would assume. But she hadn't truly inspired any interest in Mercy back then either. Bold with a loose tongue that yelled about consequences that didn't stem from her, but from who her family was.

No wonder Mercy had forgotten until now.

"I did not anticipate you to be of interest, darling Isobel. Truly a welcome surprise you are more than our little alleyway retreat suggested."

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

Mayhap the heart had already proclaimed what the mind had not yet deduced; a reunion of sorts between figures of different histories. . . different rank. . . and different fates. It may be in the Empress' alias, but the naive Acolyte did not require the Force to deduce that mercy shan't be found within the tapestry of the Core's crowned. The canvas was too tainted with the crimson of future slaughter.

Flitting between wilting and flourishing, the threads of composure drew taut and loosened within seconds. Uncertain on what to do, what to say--how to defy the use of such mocking words. 'Little Lady', as though she were some child to be coddled!

"Yes," a snarky comment slipped past the lips as her cane tapped upon the ground again, nigh on impatiently. "Brothers, nay. . . men, often make for quite confusing figures, do they not?" Her love for her kin, for others dear to her, would be quelled for the time being, locked away within a vault of her mindscape. . . Unable to be viewed a weakness or 'irrelevant'.

With the shuffle of her feet, her path diverted from the viewport, and toward one of the massive yet intricately carved pillars not far from it. A low, sweetened hum echoing quietedly within the cavernous throne room, a familial tune that oft served more a warning than a soother.

'A welcome surprise' stilled the melody for a beat; "Is it?" The Nabooan's back remained to the Empress. "Am I truly more than a naive 'little lady'? Blind to the world, seeking only what is kept from my sight?" A single tut and a lengthy exhale slipped from tired lungs.

Head tilted, the cascade of curls tumbling to her left. "Mm. . . and delivering my 'great Empress' a hazy dream." The fear that had coursed through her body at first loosened its hold on her fast.

​

 

[Mercy]

Isobel Serraris

"Yes," a snarky comment slipped past the lips as her cane tapped upon the ground again, nigh on impatiently. "Brothers, nay. . . men, often make for quite confusing figures, do they not?" Her love for her kin, for others dear to her, would be quelled for the time being, locked away within a vault of her mindscape. . . Unable to be viewed a weakness or 'irrelevant'.

Mercy couldn't help but grin there.

She wondered if she said it for her benefit. The Empress' apathy for men was well known at this point, but it was less known that in the time since she first became active in the Galaxy and now, it had considerably weakened. Oh, Mercy still believed they were hardly of use, beyond the discardable type of tasks and usually only got in the way.

But there was no longer that blind hatred that made her want to rip their heads off without consideration of who they were or what they could do for her.

"Confounding, one might even say..." Mercy teased rather than step into an argument or even seeking out to test Isobel about it.

The Titan could smell it on her, feel it in her, the way her heart slowed. Whatever fear had been gripping Isobel from the moment she had entered these halls, it was slowly receding.

This was good.

Fear was a useless emotion.

"Everyone is blind from my point of view. By their assumptions, their habits. The chains they wear freely and the ones that were foisted on them." Mercy finally said in response.

"Do you still seek the teachings of the Mystics by any chance?"

The question had an innocent tone, but the contents were anything but.

 

[Isobel Serraris]

DEATH AND REBIRTH​

LOCATION — Throneworld, Coruscant orbit
TAGS — Mercy

A bemused huff found room to blossom, in all her time on Naboo, all her time among noble bachelors. . . they were abhorrent, self-centered beasts with no regard for propriety or even duty at that. Not to mention her brothers, squabbling like hounds over who was better at courtship or any task for that matter. "Mayhaps so, yes." The tilt made way for a nod or two.

Though a shared dislike of a common group did not quite equal an alliance nor like for taller woman--in spite of the compassion and ease that wove Isobel's demeanour. The Force kept her senses on high alert, as though a sudden movement might force her on the offensive.

A free set of fingers settled upon the curvature of the pillar, seeking to ground herself within the numerous imperfections in its carvings.

"That is how we are all destined to be. . ." A shrug found the acheing line of her shoulders. "We all need a sense of belonging in the galaxy or we'll be forced adrift--wandering endlessly without purpose, without a charge." It was the way which each individual within this vast universe was wired; the seer nor the Empress was an exclusion to this truth.

The query shifted her gaze a little more toward the viewport, the side of her face coming into sight: from the shape of her aquiline nose, to the sharpness of the jaw. "It was my purpose for a time, though the ambitions of some have made that vexingly difficult to fulfill." A sigh. "Though the Sith Academy has not aided my search either. . . Alas."

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